


Drowning From the Inside Out

by audreyskdramablog



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Compliant, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Past Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22182382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreyskdramablog/pseuds/audreyskdramablog
Summary: Prompto is supposed to attend the ceremony Ignis organized for the anniversary. For the Dawn. Noct’s official funeral, technically, since only the three of them had been there the first time around, and Noctis didn’t belong to just him, or them, anymore. Prompto promised he’d be there just before sunrise as long as he didn’t have to say anything, promised he’d stand up with Ignis and Gladio and try to honor Noctis the way he deserved. Actually pay attention to the sunrise with them this time, instead of burying his face in blood-soaked clothes and crying like the world’s ending instead of starting over.But some asshole, dozens of them, all around Insomnia, starts lighting fireworks. Bright bursts of sound and color, all through the night before, reminders that everyone on this planet ishappythat Noct isdeadand Prompto’s only got two options left: explode or run.So he runs.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum & Ignis Scientia
Comments: 30
Kudos: 103
Collections: FFXV Book Club Monthly Sprint Prompts





	Drowning From the Inside Out

**Author's Note:**

> All blame for this goes to the FFXV Book Club Discord's monthly sprinting event. Many thanks to [crazyloststar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazyloststar/pseuds/Crazyloststar), who let me spam her with screenshots while I was working on this, and [MysteriousBean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysteriousBean/pseuds/MysteriousBean), who read the snippet I posted and drew me [this gorgeous picture](https://twitter.com/CarrieVogel5/status/1211361310463496193?s=20) of Prompto being miserable. 
> 
> **Heads up, all!** Prompto's having a difficult time handling his grief in this one but, despite Ignis's worries, is not in any danger of harming himself.

They turn the day Noctis died into a holiday, of course. The public. The scraps of government that survived the Long Night. And sure, for them, it is. A man they never knew, never held in their arms, walked his way to death and everlasting glory on their behalf and saved the entire fucking world at the low, low cost of his blood on a throne of moldering cloth and rusting metal.

Prompto is supposed to attend the ceremony Ignis organized for the anniversary. For the Dawn. Noct’s official funeral, technically, since only the three of them had been there the first time around, and Noctis didn’t belong to just him, or them, anymore. Prompto promised he’d be there just before sunrise as long as he didn’t have to say anything, promised he’d stand up with Ignis and Gladio and try to honor Noctis the way he deserved. Actually pay attention to the sunrise with them this time, instead of burying his face in blood-soaked clothes and crying like the world’s ending instead of starting over.

But some asshole, dozens of them, all around Insomnia, starts lighting fireworks. Bright bursts of sound and color, all through the night before, reminders that everyone on this planet is  _ happy _ that Noct is  _ dead  _ and Prompto’s only got two options left: explode or run.

So he runs.

Not literally. He scrounges up a hoodie to throw over his threadbare pajamas and the last bottle he’s got of Cindy’s moonshine and makes a break for the ruined Wall on a motorcycle that’s seen better decades. Between the helmet and the ungodly roar of the engine, Prompto can’t hear the fireworks booming in his chest, in his head, anymore.

Without the Empire, without the daemons, the Wall is the last thing anyone cares about fixing once they cleared the roads in and out of Insomnia and stabilized what’s left just enough that nothing is in imminent danger of collapsing. There’s plenty of maintenance scaffolding around for the construction workers to use on their weekly inspections, and none of it’s guarded. Hell, there’s only a couple warning signs strewn about, and Prompto hasn’t really cared all that much about potential danger for a while now.

He parks his motorcycle and breezes past all the opportunities to turn around so he can climb up the stairs and then scramble, one-handed and lugging the bottle, onto a section of Wall horizontal enough that he can turn his back on Insomnia proper and set the alcohol by his hip. His feet stick out over the edge, and he flinches with every distant boom and crackle of celebration. It’s a little easier to tune out the joy when it’s so far away.

Prompto doesn’t unscrew the cap until the eastern sky starts to go indigo and the pinpricks of starlight fade. He takes a couple mouthfuls, shudders as each one goes down, and watches the sky turn colors in the distance.

Once the sun itself peeks over the horizon, Prompto screws the cap back on the bottle and lies down. He throws his arm over his eyes to hide from the light and finally drifts off into a restless sleep.

* * *

The wind pulls him out of sleep in fits and starts, tugging at his hair, his clothes. It pebbles his skin and burrows underneath, sinking in deep enough he starts to shiver. The scent of rain is thick in the air. When Prompto forces his eyes open, there’s a line of dark gray clouds half the sky away; some of the front-runners have caught up to the sun and even passed it. The sun struggles to break through, but the shafts of light that manage are a hazy sort of yellow. 

If the wind keeps up like this, the incoming storm will beat the sun to the western horizon and ruin the festivities scheduled for sunset. 

He ought to feel something about that, Prompto thinks. Viciously pleased that they’ll be forced to cut the celebration of Noct’s death short, or something. But mostly he’s cold because he ran away in just his pajama pants and a hoodie, and he’s sore because he hasn’t slept on literal rocks for several months now. 

If he’s supposed to be feeling anything beyond that, he doesn’t have the capacity for it right now. He didn’t drink enough to drown in, and he certainly didn’t drink enough for it to be affecting him four, maybe five, hours later, if he’s gauged the sun’s path correctly. Not even at Cindy’s moonshine strength.

Prompto waits for another cloud to pass over the sun before he rolls onto his side and pushes himself back up to sitting. His descent is slow, careful, made with frigid hands and feet. He stows the mostly full bottle, puts on the helmet, and climbs onto the motorcycle to head back home.

* * *

He has to park his motorcycle a couple blocks away from his house because of the street closures. This close to the Citadel, the roads are shut down to everything but foot traffic for the festivities; he forgot that was going to happen, and the barricades must have gone up in the pre-dawn hours, after he fled the city center. 

Prompto weaves his way through the thinning crowds, hoodie drawn close over his head, helmet in one hand and moonshine in the other. His feet burn red-white from the cold. He keeps his head down and walks as quickly as he can so he doesn’t have to be confronted with anyone’s happiness. 

He rounds the last corner to his street—and stops several meters away when he realizes that the steps leading up to his front door are occupied. 

Ignis is wearing a handsome, all-black, tailored suit, with sharp shoes and a sleek cane balanced beside him. From a distance, or maybe for someone who doesn’t know him as well as Prompto used to think he did, he looks like he is just moments away from standing up and going somewhere important. 

But it’s in the subtle ways that Ignis comes apart: strands of hair falling out of place, neck and shoulders bowed, visor slipping down his nose. He’s sitting directly on those concrete steps in his finery like it hasn’t occurred to him that’s a great way to ruin it all. 

(“Prompto, I—” Ignis’s throat works, for just a moment, but it’s the way his voice almost breaks that has Prompto pulling himself up out of what he hopes is his first of many, many drinks tonight. “There’s something I must tell you.”) 

Prompto stares at Ignis and realizes he could just—keep walking. He didn’t drive his motorcycle up, and his bare feet mean he won’t make as much noise as a man his size wearing shoes ought. From this distance, with how busy the streets are right now, Ignis probably doesn’t even know he’s here. Prompto could cross right in front of him, close enough for the hem of his pajama pants to skim over a polished shoe, and Ignis would never know it’s him. 

Maybe, if Ignis had shown up last night, before the fireworks drove Prompto out of his house, he would have. Would have breezed on by because  _ fuck _ Ignis and his fancy suit and his desire to breathe despite the suffocating weight of his own conscience. 

But all that fury and resentment bled out somewhere over, up, and on the Wall, and Prompto is tired and cold and has nowhere else to go. He’s not naive enough to think they’ve hit the bottom yet, but he can’t bring himself to care right now. 

Prompto heads for his front door, and when he’s close enough to startle but not to touch, says, “Hey.”

Ignis jerks his head up, turning his face toward Prompto, and yeah—his complexion has gone gray now that Prompto can see him up close and straight on. There’s a crease between his brows, like he’s concentrating hard. “Prompto—”

“You gonna scoot over so I can get back inside?” He gestures toward the door with the bottle, even though Ignis can’t see. Ignis can hear the sloshing of the moonshine inside it, if the way he tilts his head is any indication.

“Yes, of course—”

“Here.” Prompto shoves the motorcycle helmet against Ignis’s chest before he can grab his cane, and Ignis takes it reflexively. It’s an asshole move, and Prompto doesn’t feel any twinge of pleasure to catch Ignis off guard. “Move, I’ve got to unlock the door.”

Whatever Ignis is about to say, he thinks better of it and shuts his mouth. He carefully shifts out of the way while Prompto climbs the steps, and Prompto can hear the brief drag of the end of Ignis’s cane over the concrete once Ignis grabs it again. It’s easy enough for Prompto to unlock the door with one hand and step inside.

Ignis follows close behind, and for half a second Prompto’s tempted to turn around and slam the door shut. But that would delay getting warm again, and already Prompto can feel the promise of heat in the entryway air. He puts on his house slippers, dumps the bottle of moonshine and keys on the little side table he usually leaves things on, and heads for—

“Were you not wearing shoes?” Ignis asks, surprise clear in his voice.

Of course. Ignis noticed he hadn’t paused to take them off and put them away and probably put that together with the fact that Prompto had snuck up on him outside. That’s Ignis—too clever to let things be, unless he wishes to hide something.

(“You knew,” Prompto whispers, because all the air, all the strength, has been knocked straight out of him. His chest is caving in on itself in slow motion and he doesn’t know how to stop it. He’s been hollow for too long for there to be any real resistance left. “You  _ knew.” _ )

Prompto doesn’t answer. He leaves Ignis behind in the entryway with the helmet and the open door. Either Ignis will leave or he’ll stay, but the door will end up locked either way. Ignis is too fastidious to do anything else. 

His bedroom door is still open from when he made his escape late last night, so Prompto beelines through it and strips off his clothes. He tosses them haphazardly on top of the dirty pile of laundry and makes for the master bath and the shower inside. 

The first spray of water doesn’t feel like anything but rhythm and pressure, but once the hot water finally hits, it sends sharp pinpricks of heat into his shoulders, his arms, his back, his thighs. His muscles ache as the warmth sinks in deep and then sluices through him and down the drain. His hands and feet tingle with it for a long while before finally relaxing under the constant stream of heat. A few places on his feet sting from the small collection of scrapes he got from riding a motorcycle and walking the city barefoot. It’s an anchoring sort of pain.

He remembers when hot water used to be a small miracle of its own. A treasure. Something that was carefully hoarded and just as carefully shared. They’ve only had the utilities up and running in this new Insomnia for a few months now and he’s already gotten used to being frivolous with them. If he’d done something stupid like this during the Night, it would have taken a lot longer for him to warm up than this.

Prompto emerges from the shower with red-pink skin and a different kind of emptiness. He towels off his hair, remembers to brush his teeth, and hunts for a little while for some of his last clean clothes. He’s started collecting clothes again, he realizes as he pulls on the least-wrinkled ones from his clean pile, now that he has a permanent space to store them in. Or maybe it’s just that time-honed instinct to scavenge useful things, no matter what they are, in case he can trade them for something more precious later. 

It’s startlingly quiet after the constant thrum of the shower. He wonders if Ignis left. He can’t hear anything from the rest of the house. Wonders if he stays back in his bedroom, how long it will take Ignis to seek him out. Or if Ignis has gotten all he needed by confirming Prompto is still in Insomnia.

(Gladio grabs him by the arm. Prompto is on his feet and doesn’t know when he got there. Ignis is very still and very pale in his chair with the coffee table between them. His hands are clenched in his dress slacks, and his spine and his shoulders are stiff, but his head is bowed enough Prompto can see the crown of his head. 

He doesn’t know what he was going to say, to do. It left his mind in the time it took to stand up. But Gladio’s hand is a vice, holding him back, and suddenly the only thing he wants in the entire world is to break free of it. 

So he explodes.)

Fuck it, Prompto decides. He isn’t about to let Ignis hold him hostage in his own home, if he’s still here. It’s been a long time since Ignis could truly make him cower with a well-timed look or an arched brow. And besides, he doubts Ignis has the spirit to try. Not when he looks like he did on the front steps. 

That thought twists his gut. Prompto hates that even after everything Ignis did—and didn’t—do, that there’s still something inside him that’s sympathetic. That doesn’t want to hurt him more than he already has. That doesn’t want to believe their friendship is over. He shoves those thoughts aside, puts his slippers back on, and shuffles out to the living room. 

Ignis is standing there, off to the side, like he couldn’t bring himself to take a seat. He did take off his shoes and leave them in the entryway with his cane. Not comfortable enough to make himself at home, but not so uncertain as to be ready for an immediate escape. The motorcycle helmet and moonshine are on the coffee table. Ignis looks like he took the time Prompto was showering to compose himself; his complexion is still a little off, but Ignis holds himself carefully, the way he does when he’s attending to official matters or knows he has an audience. 

“You need something?” Prompto asks on his way to his little kitchen. 

Ignis doesn’t answer immediately. Prompto wonders just how many different lectures Ignis rehearsed while he was in the shower. “Merely to confirm your wellbeing.”

Prompto’s cobbled-together first-aid kit is in one of the cupboards. He digs it out and does not slam the cupboard door. “Consider it confirmed,” he says as he grabs a clean rag. “Anything else?”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m hesitant to believe that.”

“No,” says Prompto. “I don’t think I will.”

He returns to the living room in time to watch Ignis go rigid. There aren’t that many instances over the years that he’s made Ignis speechless, and right now isn’t anything for Prompto to be proud of. But it  _ is  _ a boundary between them. Prompto just doesn’t know if it’s one that Ignis is capable of respecting. 

Ah. There’s his fury and resentment again—or at least the embers. The heat of the shower must have breathed life back into them. Prompto settles down on the couch, sets his first-aid kit and rag on the coffee table, and starts digging through the kit. It’s a metal box that’s seen better days, and he hasn’t kept it as organized or well-stocked as it used to be during the Night, when it was generally his only source of medical care. 

Prompto pulls out a small plastic bottle from the kit. Sania never did manage to find a way to fight the Starscourge, but one of her many good discoveries was an antiseptic they could still produce even with the world disintegrating. Prompto slides his feet out of his slippers and unscrews the cap. He grabs the rag, gets a small portion of it wet with the antiseptic, and brings his right foot up to rest on his left knee. Prompto’s careful as he dabs the worst scrapes on his feet and makes sure to breathe steady and silent even though it stings like hell. 

Ignis is the one who hisses. 

Prompto belatedly realizes that, while the worst part of the antiseptic is how much it stings, it also has a distinctive odor. He glances over at Ignis; Ignis’s mouth is pressed thin, and his hands have curled into loose fists. His hands slowly curl tighter as Prompto watches, as the seconds tick by and the smell stays in the air. 

Prompto picks up the bottle of antiseptic and wets a slightly larger section of the rag. Ignis breathes in sharply. But whatever it is that he wants to say, he keeps all the words locked behind his teeth while Prompto finishes patching his feet up. 

It really isn’t all that bad; only a few of the scrapes need a bandage once he’s cleaned them up. Could have been a lot worse after riding a motorcycle, trudging through rubble, and walking the city streets barefoot. If it were still the Night, Prompto probably wouldn’t have bothered with covering them up. But bandages aren’t as precious as they used to be, and he allows himself the luxury of using some today. 

Ignis is still standing, still waiting. Prompto puts the antiseptic away and starts reorganizing his first-aid kit. Might as well, since it’s out, and it’s probably going to be a good idea to keep his hands occupied. He tries to keep his voice neutral. “Why are you still here?”

There—Ignis’s jaw clenches, a small giveaway of the feelings he’s wrestling with. That fleeting display loosens something in Prompto’s chest. This time, if he ends up yelling, he thinks Ignis might actually fight back. “Because we were worried about you.”

There are a couple people that Prompto assumes are in that  _ we, _ but no one else was waiting on his front steps. 

“Well, you can tell everyone I’m fine, then.”

“You are  _ not, _ ” Ignis snaps. “You have always been a man of your word, Prompto Argentum, yet you vanished mere hours before Noct’s service. You didn’t respond to texts or calls and you weren’t  _ here. _ What were we to think—”

Prompto slams the first-aid kit closed. 

(“Don’t go too hard on him,” Gladio says on the front steps. Ignis disappeared ages ago, but Gladio stayed and let him fall apart. This sudden shift in sympathies leaves Prompto reeling worse than from the effects of the alcohol. “You went through a lot of rough patches during the Night. Ignis was just worried about you. We both were.”

“If you were worried about me at all,” Prompto says, still reckless and burning , “you wouldn’t have left us first.”

Gladio rears back, and anger turns his expression tight. “Maybe I shouldn’t have. But you left second.”

Prompto slams the door shut in his face.)

“Fuck you.” In other circumstances, Prompto would be a little proud about how calmly those two words come out. As it is, he’s too busy fighting to stay on the couch instead of getting in Ignis’s face. “Sorry I’ve only had two weeks to try to deal with the fact that you knew Noct was going to die and never told me. Sorry I couldn’t handle listening to the  _ entire fucking city  _ celebrating that Noct’s dead.”

“Prompto—”

“I hated myself that last night with Noct,” Prompto continues. Every word is a confession that cuts deeper into his heart. “That I couldn’t just—keep it together like you and Gladio. He kept—apologizing. Apologizing to  _ me, _ when he was the one who—” 

His voice breaks, and Ignis flinches. “I just made it harder for him. I was such a selfish asshole that I made  _ him  _ comfort  _ me _ on his last—”

His voice fails him then. Prompto presses the heels of his palms against his eyes and sucks in shaky breaths. He got through the sunrise without crying; he’s not about to break down now. “So if you think for one second that I’m going to shit all over everything Noct did for the world, for  _ us, _ you can go fuck yourself.”

Noct entrusted them with the world he couldn’t stick around to rebuild. It was his last gift to them, and Prompto intends to guard it jealously until Etro herself rips it from his hands.

“Well.” Ignis’s voice is thick, not quite wet. “That puts my mind a little more at ease.”

Prompto drops his hands and looks over. Ignis has his visor lifted just enough for fingers to slide underneath and press into the corners of his eyes. He looks as if he’s about to curl in on himself, far more mortal, fragile, than Prompto has allowed himself to believe these past two weeks. It reminds Prompto that the world was not the only gift Noctis gave them. 

He pulled them together, as if ten years of pain and bad decisions and trauma and horrible secrets had never allowed them to drift apart in the first place. He pulled them together so strongly that even after he left them permanently, they’re still tightly connected.

Prompto lets out a long, unsteady breath, and with it goes some of the ugliness that’s been drowning him from the inside out. Some of it, and maybe never all of it, but enough. Enough for him to say, “Sit down, Ignis.”

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever  _ get  _ why Ignis made that decision to keep the inevitability of Noct’s death to himself. He’s pretty sure he’ll never be okay with it. It wasn’t a one-time choice on Ignis’s part. Prompto remembers every time Ignis tried to help him out of his low places, how Ignis was always so sure, so confident, in Noct’s return and the prophecy that said he would restore light to the world. 

Prompto remembers how hard he clung to the reassurances Ignis made him. How he used them to build a shaky foundation of hope for himself. Of course Noct would come back. And then after all the important stuff was done, maybe then they could carve out some time, just the two of them, to finish the reconciling they’d barely started in Zegnautus. 

It wasn’t Ignis’s fault that Prompto never figured out how to untangle a single portion of his heart from Noct. It isn’t Ignis’s fault that Prompto spent the last year nursing the ruin of all his hope. And it isn’t Ignis’s or Gladio’s fault that they could figure out how to—to function in this new world with Noctis truly gone.

And as furious and bitter as he’s been this last year, Prompto knows it is not because they loved Noctis less than him. Differently, yes. But not any less. 

Ignis takes a careful seat in his usual chair. Even though he still looks tired, he doesn’t let himself relax into it, and Prompto’s gut twists a little more. This is not the kind of power he’s ever wanted, to be able to do this to one of his friends. It had felt good,  _ righteous, _ the last time they sat across from each other; it’s edging toward nauseating now.

Prompto’s not ready to apologize. But he does blurt out a very small peace offering, “I’m not hurt. Not really. Just some scrapes because—yeah, I didn’t have my shoes on.”

The first sentence threatened to pull the curve of Ignis’s lips into a frown; the last sentence smoothes it out. It’s almost a surprise when he decides to accept Prompto’s words. “Where did you go?”

“The Wall.” Prompto wishes the first-aid kit were still open so he could have something to do with his hands. He mutters, “Had to get away from the fireworks.”

Ignis hums softly. “Clever. I wish I had thought of that.”

“So yeah. Just—waited for the sun to come up. Had a drink with Noct, I guess. Fell asleep out there.” Prompto doesn’t want to let the silence stretch on too long, so he asks, “How were the services?”

“I assume they went well,” Ignis says after a moment. “I haven’t heard otherwise.”

Prompto stares. “You assume?”

“You were missing,” Ignis says quietly. “And you were far more important than saying goodbye again.”

On one level, it’s almost—comforting to be reminded that Ignis cares more about him than an event he’s spent months planning. On several other levels, Prompto is appalled, and not just because Ignis really does seem to have entertained many dire possibilities, but because Prompto knows just how much the event meant to him. Not the celebratory aspects of the rest of the day, the ones that drove Prompto out to the edge of Insomnia, but the chance to break ground on Noct’s tomb and to have an official statement regarding Noct’s life and his legacy. 

Ignis hates the way that Noct’s memory shifts closer and closer to deification with every passing month, just like Prompto does. Gladio’s uncomfortable with the idea but is also pretty certain that’s a fight they’ll end up losing in the long run.

“What about your speech?”

Ignis lets out a breath that isn’t quite a sigh. “I wasn’t happy with it anyway. I spent much of the night attempting to revise it and becoming less satisfied with every change.” He hesitates, then adds, “To be frank, I was more concerned by what I was going to say to you when you arrived.”

Prompto grimaces. He doesn’t  _ like _ being the kind of person Ignis feels like he needs to handle cautiously. “Don’t worry about it.”

“On the contrary, Prompto, I must ask your—”

“Don’t,” Prompto says again, not quite sharp. “I’m not—ready for this conversation right now. Maybe never. Just—don’t, all right?”

“As you wish.”

He is a little surprised that Ignis gives in on that point so quickly, but he can recognize a peace offering, too. “Thanks.”

“In the spirit of full disclosure,” Ignis continues after a heartbeat, “I let the others know that you returned home so they could call off their searches.”

He runs a hand through his still-damp hair and wishes today never happened. “Who?”

“All the usual suspects,” Ignis says. 

Aranea is going to kick his ass, if Iris doesn’t catch him first. “They going to show up at my front door?” The idea of more people pouring into his house to come stare at him and his inability to get his shit back together is almost enough to kickstart his claustrophobia. Prompto glances reflexively at the helmet still on the coffee table and wonders if he’ll be able to bolt before Ignis can intercept him.

“Only Gladio.”

“He’s here?”

“Outside,” Ignis says, “or should be soon. He insisted, in case I ‘fucked things up again.’”

Prompto chokes on the start of a laugh and immediately feels guilty for getting even that close to lighthearted today. “He didn’t do so hot after you left, either.”

“Still. It has been...reassuring to know that he would be here to step in if I bungled this again.”

Ignis doesn’t like to admit weakness, and Prompto knows it’s another peace offering. It’s also an opportunity, because Ignis has always been good at making sure his words do double duty when they can. 

The embers in his chest feel less like fury now. They’re gentler, more anticipatory. Something strangely akin to hope. 

Prompto scrubs a hand over his face and makes the decision not to smother the feeling. “Grab some glasses, Iggy. You never got to finish your drink.”

The surprise in Ignis’s expression softens into something that makes Prompto’s chest ache. “How many?”

“Three,” Prompto says as he stands up and heads for his front door. “We can’t finish that moonshine by ourselves.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [tumblr](http://audreyskdramablog.tumblr.com/) & [twitter](https://twitter.com/audreyskdrama) if you like.


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